Control
by strawberryblush
Summary: F!MageXCullen, BDSM, explicit content - The circle is all control. How will the mage cope out of it? What will happen when it all goes away?
1. Chapter 1

_Trigger warnings: BDSM, verging on non-con (consent is never explicitly given, only implicitly, and that might even change in the future depending on where this goes) some distortion of reality and mental-issue themes._

_Author's notes: 1) Bioware owns everything and I own nothing; further, I make no profit off of this._  
><em>2) Explicit sexual content, watch out below.<em>  
><em>3) This is a f!mage (I'm trying to stay away from whether it's Amell or Neria) x Cullen, and is designed to explain why she went off to rebuild the wardens and he went to Kirkwall. 4) Yes, I'm British, this means British spelling, and the occasional British curse word or turn of phrase.<em>

Of all the things that she had expected leaving the circle, the innate sense of panic hadn't been one of them.

Looking back, she supposed she should have seen it coming. She'd spent all her life that she could remember under the Templar's thumb. Control was not something she had to worry about, simply because they did it for her. It was a fine line to walk, one that she knew had driven others mad, or complacent.

There were some mages who threw themselves into insanity even as they threw themselves against the rock of their guardians, the walls of the circle, the laws of the land, and they never won.

There were others who gave into hopelessness, depressed beyond all human measure that that control wasn't theirs, who would stop getting up, stop washing, stop learning, stop eating, and eventually, just stop altogether. They tried to shephard the apprentices away from those - the dead eyes in a face that still drew breath gave bad dreams enough to those that were grown, never mind those young enough that every shadow seemed to hold a demon.

But she had enjoyed it. The knowledge that if something wrong happened _(because she was a mage, and mages were BAD)_ there would be someone there to catch her was freeing. And when you learn that there is something inside of you that might cause you to one day lay waste to everything you've ever known, a quick death at the hands of a vigilient guardian doesn't seem so bad. The thought of it even comforted her sometimes at night when she was lying in dorms, listening to the others breathe, wondering if there was about to be a hitch of breath, and then a roar as an abomination came down on them all.

_Nothing bad will happen, the Templars will stop it._

And then, suddenly...she was outside. Fucking Jowan. She had felt bad about turning him in - she'd only ever meant to talk to Irving enough to confirm whether he was going to be made Tranquil or not, but the wiley old First Enchanter had tricked it out of her - until that moment, that horrible moment when that look of desperation in Jowan's eye had turned to steel and then there was a knife and blood and o_h maker..._

**That** was what happened when you were bad and disobeyed. Bad things happened.

And the outside was worse. Here, suddenly, there were no Templars to catch her. Maker help her, but what if something happened? What IF?

She spent the entire first week trying not to sleep, not to dream, to stay out of the Fade, the sleep deprivation leaving her permanently on the verge of screaming at Duncan, would he even know what to DO if something went wrong? He wasn't a Templar, he was a WARDEN, and they dealt in Darkspawn, not demons, not shades, not abominations, and the one time they spent the night in a village on the way to Ostagar, she'd stayed up all night, jabbing a fork she'd stolen from dinner into her legs to make sure she wouldn't sleep and kill the villagers.

But then when it came time to ride out in the morning, she'd lasted all of ten minutes before slumber claimed her and she'd fallen off her mount and hit her head. And Duncan, normally implacable, gave her a Look and tied her to her horse and told her if she didn't sleep, he'd drug her, and they were away from people so she could stop being so twitchy, and...

...And she didn't remember the rest, because between the sleep deprivation and the concussion, that was about when she stopped caring and let herself go. And by the time she woke up, it was thirty-six hours later and they were nearly there, and her legs ached in ways she'd never felt before or since from being tied into place on a saddle that was just a little too small for her.

But then she met Alistair. And something inside her relaxed, because even if he hadn't taken his vows, he still knew what being a Templar was all about, and knew that she was a mage, and knew what could happen if things went Bad.

And somehow he was the worst and the best Templar she'd ever met. He joked and made her laugh and at times when she thought all was lost, she'd just hear his voice coming out of the darkness making some wry remark and suddenly it didn't all seem so bad and then a solution would spring into her head and it would all be Ok.

And he was the worst because he wouldn't lead. Wouldn't control. Wouldn't order. She didn't know what to do without orders, without control. She'd never been so grateful to anyone as she was to Morrigan when she talked about going to Lothering first, because all she'd wanted to do otherwise was hide under that bed in Flemeth's hut until the world ended and she didn't have to be In Charge anymore.

But then they had Morrigan. And Dog. And Sten and Leiliana, and a bit later, Zevran, and then a bit after that Wynne and finally Oghren, and she found she could really relax, because while she might say what they were doing, she had them for if she ever went out of control. Zevran would be the fastest to catch her, but Morrigan would know if she was getting weak, and Wynne would know if she was breaking the circle rules, and Leiliana would warn her if she was getting cruel, and Sten if she was lying, but Oghren was always there to offer some foul smelling drink and make sure they had something like fun sometimes and Alistair...

...and Alistair would be sweet, and stammering, and there was a rose, and long glances across the campfire and a burning in her chest like she'd never felt before and eventually they were in bed together and it was sweet, and true, and lovely, and good, and everything bright in the world.

And then they saved the world and it all went to hell.

The pain when Alistair had looked her in the eye and told her they couldn't go on was bad. Horrific. She'd stayed the night in Leiliana's bed, as she and Zevran - a pairing she really should have seen coming, the bard and the assassin, talk about cliche - had muttered comforting things at her while she lay between them unable to stop sobbing. A few hours before dawn, there had been a knock on the door, and there had been Morrigan looking guilty, her hair still mussed from completing the ritual with Alistair, and there hadn't been a word between them as she slid onto the bed with the others and between the three of them - so different, so unique, and yet all still so loving - she'd finally been able to grope her way to the knowledge that while this hurt like hell, she'd be ok, she'd survive, eventually.

And then they killed the Archdemon. Or rather, she had - and when she'd gotten back, Morrigan had already been gone, and the absence had kicked like a mule in her gut.

And then, making excuses and sharing secret smiles, Zevran and Leiliana had been out of the door almost before the congratulations ceremony was done, and she was left feeling like she was missing an arm.

And Oghren left, and Sten, and Wynne, until finally it was just her and Alistair and Dog and she felt that it was odd she could still walk without careening into things because the world was so off balance.

And before she knew it, there were mutterings of a queen, and royal wedding, and choosing a bride, and she couldn't stand it.

She knew she couldn't stay when one morning, out of frustration, she'd set fire to the tapestry in her room.

Immediately there had been running footsteps outside in the corridor, and the rush of relief she'd felt had been almost overwhelming. There would be someone who'd come in, and they'd yell, and they'd tell her to do something to make it up, and it would all be better because she wouldn't be In Charge anymore.

But she was sorely disappointed when the man with the thunderous expression who burst through her door took one look at her and turned pale. "Ah...My lady! I mean, Hero! I mean...Enchanter?" he finished slightly lamely. Apparently Killer-Of-Archdemons-and-ex-lover-of-the-king was too much of a mouthful to fit into one title, so they hadn't decided on what she was officially. "I'm so sorry to intrude - may I offer any assistance?"

She stared at him disbelieving. _'I'm burning pieces of your castle,_' she wanted to shout. _'With magic. Magic that is technically illegal - and you're offering assistance?'_

For one surreal moment she was tempted to tell him she needed three infants, the blood of a virgin and a sharp knife and see what he would do. But the urge passed, barely.

"No, thank you," she replied in her calmest tone of voice, trying for all the world not to look like she was standing in a room with one drapery on fire and the ones either side of it starting to smoulder.

He stared for one more minute, and then bowed and excused himself.

After a couple more minutes when no one else came - not even Alistair, which she couldn't help but feel bereft and abandoned and lonely over - and it was clear no one else was going to come, lest they risk offending the hero of Ferelden, the room had filled with enough smoke that her eyes were watering so, sulkily, she encased that entire wall in ice and started packing.

She was gone before sunrise the next day. On her bed she left his rose. If he couldn't get the message behind that, she...well, she would try her best not to care.


	2. Chapter 2

Cullen was going out of his mind.

Not literally, thankfully - having been driven to the edge of it before by demons, he knew the warning signs of insanity. And this wasn't it yet.

But if he had to take another year of it, he was going to have to start finding furnishings to scream into.

Everytime he saw a mage who had lived through the breaking of the circle, he wanted to shake them. Yell at them. Hurt them until he was sure, they were sure, everyone in the known world, the Maker himself, was sure they weren't possessed, weren't a demon, weren't doing blood magic the second he was out of sight. Everytime he found an older mage speaking to a younger, a new arrival chatting with an old hand, his mind went into overdrive, screaming about what-ifs, and possession and it _spreading_, until it was worse and then...

Greagoir noticed, one morning, and pulled him into the Knight-Commander's office for a stern word about where exactly Templar responsibilities lay, and where they STOPPED. That if he had solid, rock solid suspicions about someone, they'd pull them in. But until that point, unless they were doing damage, or something where they shouldn't, he was to stop scowling so much, damnit, he was scaring the children.

So now, he went everywhere in sulky silence, trying to watch without scowling. And failed mostly - he could tell by the Knight commander's quiet sighs of frustration whenever he came into view.

And it got worse - that morning, _she_ came back.

Threat number one. The one who went out into the world and came back. The one who went into a room full of blood mages and miraculously defeated them all and came out with all her companions alive, and no one thought that perhaps, just perhaps, they should be checking her over for blood magic, because if the others were a threat, then she was damn near a sure thing.

But, to his amazement, no one did. They all bowed politely. Murmured titles and welcomes in quiet voices. Gave her a room - with a door! - and left her to her own devices and didn't watch her hardly at all, and even Greagoir ducked his head in a respectful bow when she passed.

He couldn't believe it - she was practically an apostate and no one cared.

Well, he cared. He didn't know why she'd come back, but she obviously had a plan. And he was going to find it out.

So, he followed her. He noticed when she woke and when she bathed and when she ate. He noted how her time away had turned her skin slightly darker, and that it suited her, and that the long months fighting had given her a figure no one else here had, neither slender and fragile or soft and curvy, but muscular and strong, and undeniably feminine in the way her waist was just so and her hips and her arms...

He was there while she trained in the garden outside the circle in ways he'd never seen mages do before. Most used their staves like genteel walking sticks, if at all, but she iworked/i, swinging it around her ams and behind her back, using it like a club as often as she would shoot a spell out of it, running, ducking, tumbling, occasionally surprising him with a twist and a change of direction and a how-did-she-do-that-so-quickly.

He was there when she wandered the library, seemingly aimlessly, picking out books at random, reading a page or two before putting them back in the wrong place, which made him grind his teeth and and itch to put them back where they should be, but he couldn't because that was not a Templar's responsibility.

The first harrowing they had after the Blight he was summoned for. The child - well, no longer, but he seemed so to Cullen, trembling and unsure, putting his hands to the pedestal and falling, made it through in record time, and was released, beaming at his own accomplishments and Cullen all but flew out of the chamber after him, anxious to find her and make sure she hadn't done...anything while he'd been busy.

She wasn't in her room. Nor the garden. Nor the dining hall, the lake side, or the library.

He could feel panic pounding in the back of his head. Logically, something inside him pointed out she'd been awarded her freedom. She didn't have to stay in the tower. If she'd left while he was in the chamber, there was precious little he could do about it. But he knew she must be here somewhere, it was just where...

A tranquil pointed him in the direction of the store chambers, and he blundered inside. The deep passages were cold and unwelcome, but up ahead, he could hear movement.

He rounded a corner to see her putting down the last of a group of spiders that were bigger than the average dog. the ease and grace of her spells took his breath away - how could the Knight-commander let something so casually deadly as she was just roam around unguarded?

At the approach of his footsteps, she whipped round and her eyes narrowed. He could actually feel himself shifting inside his armour, as she approached, as if readying himself for a fight.

"Why," she snapped, "do you keep following me?"

He opened his mouth to reply. He wanted to tell her - that he was onto her, that he'd find out her plan, that she wouldn't win this. He wanted her demons to know that they were doomed.

But what actually came out was not what he'd intended. "If you are ever so stupid as to fight things like this on your own again, I'll punish you."

He shut his mouth with an audible snap. Punish her? Templars did not punish mages. They imprisoned them, made them Tranquil or killed them. Disciplinary matters were left for the mages themselves to handle - not the Templars. They were guardians, not masters.

She was staring at him, he realised. "Punish me?" The words came out breathless and slightly high. No wonder she should be disblieving, he thought sourly, she'd probably never heard anything so stupid. But he couldn't back down now.

"Yes," he ground out. "Punish you. The others might let you off because you're the 'Hero of Ferelden', but I won't. You put one toe out of line, and I'll be there so fast you'll not have time to blink."


	3. Chapter 3

Punish her?

The circle had almost been worse than Denerim. Everyone so anxious to please, to help, to obey.

Fuck off, she'd thought at most of them more than once. She didn't want to be in charge.

But they were so obsequious - she only had to hint at something, and it was done. She needed somewhere to sleep? They'd give her a room. Not just in the mages quarters either, one of the senior quarters, where you got a sitting room where you could work as well as a bedroom, and you actually got some privacy - hell, her bedroom door even had a lock on it. She didn't think anyone other than the Templars got locks in the circle.

She could almost feel half of them waiting for her to proclaim herself Senior Enchanter or, hell, even First. She bet if she did, no one would argue. Even Irving occasionally gave her these quiet looks that she was sure were supposed to reassure her he'd step aside when the time came.

She spent most of her time in bed trying not to shred her sheets in frustration. The only thing that kept her here was that there were Templars. So if something went wrong...

...she never thought she'd be so glad to have Cullen following her around all the time. But he was a reassuring prescense at her back. Whereever she was, went, whatever she did or looked at, he was there, with quiet, constant vigilence.

Now if only she could find something to do, she'd be...well, not happy, but satisfied.

Until one morning when she stepped outside her quarters and...he wasn't there.

Panic started building at the back of her mind. Had something happened? What was wrong?

The templar she asked in the hall (a new one, she didn't know his name) told her Cullen was in the harrowing chamber, and then gave her a wink and said he was sure the Knight-Commander would reign him in so she'd have some time to herself soon.

She'd tried not to gape in surprise and dismay.

And then had taken herself off to the storage tunnels in the hope of finding something to blow up, and wasn't disappointed.

Time to herself, she'd thought as she'd sent chunks of rock flying to crush one spider and do pretty well at maiming a second. Pull Cullen away?

Three more went up in flames, and just to make herself fell better, she froze another two and then brought her staff down on them with all the force she could muster so they shattered in a satisfying shower of icey spider bits.

Did they not know what she was? Thanks to the war, she was probably the strongest mage here. She knew she could outstrip Irving, no problem. If something went wrong - if the demons got her.

There was no finesse to how she killed the last one, she simply poured raw magic at it, putting in all her panic, her fear, her disbelief in the desperate hope that as it curled up and died, it would make her feel better.

It didn't, and she heard familiar footsteps behind her just as her temper cracked and she whipped around, wanting to fight, to argue, for someone, somewhere to put her into line.

"Why are you following me?"

For a second, he looked as angry as she felt and she thought he might not bother with an answer and just smack her. But instead, with a voice that sounded slightly rough, he snapped back "If you are ever so stupid as to fight things like this on your own again, I'll punish you."

She stared at him. Had she heard him right? Punish?

The thought brought a wave of relief closely followed by a burning in her belly and between her legs. She actually struggled to get her words out past it, and even so, her voice came out high and breathy with arousal. "Punish me?"

He glared down at her, and then spoke like he was having to push the words out through his teeth. "Yes, punish you. The others might let you off because you're the 'Hero of Ferelden', but I won't. You put one toe out of line, and I'll be there so fast you'll not have time to blink."

She couldn't stop staring, even as he tore his eyes away from hers and went stalking back up the passage towards the entrance, the door slamming behind him.

Punish her?

The next two days were spent in an almost dreamlike state. The sheer relief that Cullen at least didn't think she was Andraste born again and able to do no wrong and was keeping an eye out was greater than she had words for. For the first time, she woke feeling rested, ate with an appetite, and managed to read a full book in the library. Staff exercises suddenly felt more like stretching her muscles and less like something she did so as to not go mad.

But the notion of punishment wouldn't get out of her head. Would he? Really?

The worst thing was that she had no idea if he meant it or not, because she didn't see him. And she kept an eye out, but all the places senior Templars - which he wasn't, but he was the closest thing they had - were stationed were remarkably Cullen-free. Not the library, not the dining hall, nor the office's corridor or the Chantry or the entrace, or even overseeing the rebuilding efforts.

Where was he?

When he still didn't reappear on the morning of the third day, she went looking in earnest, working her way methodically through the tower until she found him standing guard on a completely disused corridor, full of offices used by those who died in the attack.

He didn't look over at her arrival, didn't blink even, but just kept staring straight ahead. Even when she walked up the corridor and stopped so she was right in front of him.

She scowled, and looked around.

Directly across from him was an alcove in the wall that used to hold a set of three decorative vases - one had been smashed, but the other two were still there.

As if she no longer had control of her body, she saw her hand reach out and take the smaller of the two. Then, looking calmly at Cullen, she dropped it.

It shattered on the floor, and he stared at her - at her now, not some spot above her head - in something like shock before she saw his shoulders twitch as if he was going to-

But he stopped. Still staring at her intently - like he couldn't tear his eyes away if he wanted to. But he didn't move, for all he looked as poised to strike as any cat after a mouse.

She met his gaze with a level look, and reached out to take the last vase. Their eyes still locked, she let it dangle casually from one finger, and then after a couple of seconds, let it fall.

His hand was on her arm, gripping and tight, before it had even hit the ground as he dragged her into the nearest office.

"I warned you." His words were rough and half broken, but she didn't care, because all she could think was that she wasn't so sure about what she'd gotten herself into here...

The room, sure enough, used to be an office, and none of the furniture had survived, lying in smashed, broken heaps around the room, the desk crushed clean in half, so one half still stood, leaning on the floor, the corner of the desk forming the peak of a triangle of wood. With harsh hands he shoved her over it so her behind was thrust into the air - the wood bruised her hips, and the cried out involuntarily, instinctively trying to right herself again.

"No." was his simple, snapped reply, and she felt, rather than saw, because she was still half upside down, him remove one of the straps from around her waist and the next thing she knew was he'd looped it around both her wrists and secured it to the jagged ripped edge of the desk that was resting on the floor so she couldn't move, couldn't do more than weakly kick her legs in protest and she didn't want to do that, because the edges of the desk were sharp and digging in, damnit.

Her addled mind noted that, absurdly, the only thing securing her was some cloth. Normal, non-enchanted cloth. She was the hero of ferelden, a mage, and could burn through these in seconds. If she wanted to, she could get away. Even if he nullified her magic, she was pretty sure she could wriggle out without too much trouble. She knew it. He knew it. As he stepped back for a couple of seconds, she was reasonably sure he was waiting to see if she would - if she'd back out.

She hung, weakly, not saying anything, the shame of this burning her cheeks and making her press her forehead to the wood beneath her to hide, the need of it making her stay all the same.

A strong blow of his hand to her left buttock shocked a cry out of her, for all it didn't actually hurt - she was wearing mage robes that were thick and designed for warmth in a drafty old tower stood on the middle of a lake, and it took most of the blow.

She heard a muttered curse behind her, and then her robes her being lifted up, out of the way, and tucked around her waist, leaving her bare but for her small clothes.

She had a brief wondering of what all of Ferelden would think if it could see their hero now, arse up, at a Templar's mercy in the most undignified manner possible.

Then all the thoughts in her head were shocked away by the blows raining down on her behind, each cheek in turn, hard enough she could feel the area warming and turning pink, gritting her teeth against crying out.

When she thought she could take anymore, he stopped. She panted against the desk, suddenly aware that she was more turned on than she'd ever been in her life, and by the maker, she didn't know what she was going to do if he didn't itouch her/i...

Another blow, then a second, which felt...different. Not so hard, but they stung more. That was what made her cry out, realising as she did so, what the change was - he'd taken off his gloves. They were skin to skin now, for the barest amount of time when the blows struck.

She was biting back sobs by the time he was finished, by her count, 20 blows later, both from the pain - why was it this seemed to hurt more than all the arrows she took during the Blight put together? - and from the need, the terrible, terrible burning between her legs. She could actually feel her face heat up more from the shame as she realised she'd probably soaked through her small clothes.

She felt him rest one hand on the back of her thigh - a warning, if she didn't answer right.

"Apologise." The order was harsh and bitten off, but she didn't care.

"I'm sorry ser," she gasped.

"Will you do it again?"

"No ser!"

The hand was moving, upwards, upwards...oh Maker, yes, please, please.

It was the lightest of touches, a whisper of contact between her legs, and not nearly enough. She whimpered.

And immediately wished she hadn't as she could almost _feel_ him snap to attention at the sound. In an instant, so fast her head spun, she was upright again, her robes falling back around her ankles, and the strap tugged off her wrists, thrust into her hands a second before she was thrust out through the door.

"Behave yourself." was growled behind her as the door slammed, and Cullen did not emerge.

She managed to take a few shakey steps before she realised she should probably reattach the strap to her belt pouch before going somewhere others would see her. She felt like she did when she left the Fade, when she woke from a strange dream. Only, she thought with a wince at the ache in her behind, this was no dream.

Mostly because she was aware of the roaring need in her. Andraste, she thought what she'd had with Alistair had been bad - Alistair was a faint echo, a distorted reflection in a pond compared to this. It was like the moon and the sun - she was one big burning ball of frustration, and she had half a mind to go back and throw herself at Cullen's feet and beg if she had to, just please do -

The door to the office opened behind her and Cullen stepped out, resuming his post and looking damnably unruffled.

She stared at him. He stared at the point of nothing in the distance way above her head on the far side of the corridor, not seeing her.

It was like the last few minutes had never happened.

Suddenly overset by a tremendous bad mood, she stomped away. Fucking Templar!


	4. Chapter 4

He'd never been so hard in his life.

The conversation with the Knight-Commander hadn't been pretty. And not really a conversation - it wasn't like he'd actually got to put forward his view at all. He'd simply sat there as Greagoir ranted, and then - of all the bloody insults - assigned him to guard an unused corridor for 5 days as punishment!

And it was a good one - Cullen felt horribly guilty. They were stretched thin as it was. With him out of the way, the others would have to pick up the slack, and there weren't exactly many to pick it up.

He'd spent the first two days fuming. If she was a demon, this was playing directly into her hands - get him, the one Templar that was actually suspicious, actually had shown he gave a damn, out of the way, and the others would soon fall. It only hardened his resolve to be more vigilent when this was over - he'd just be more subtle.

So the last person he'd expected to see on the morning of the third day was her.

He felt his determination surge - this was obviously some sort of ploy, he wouldn't give into it. He wouldn't give her more ammunition to get him removed. And if she did something now...

His hand almost twitched towards his sword.

Brazen as you like, she strolled up to him.

Only...it wasn't so brazen. None of the demons he'd ever been tormented by had had her wearing ithat/i expression. One part forboding, two parts curiosity, one part outright determination. Normally, they'd gone for sassy. Or seductive. Or helpless and alone and frightened.

Not this.

And they certainly hadn't smashed a vase at his feet.

He stared at her, his own words echoing back in his ears - _punish you._

Staring back, she'd slowly, calmly, smashed the second.

After that it was a bit of a blur, he only remembered her firm, shapely legs, a few scars here and there, and his hand on her arse, and the flush of her skin, and her cries, and her promise, and then, suddenly, she whimpered, and he realised exactly _where_ he was touching her, and he couldn't get her out fast enough.

And then he leant his forehead against the doorframe and admitted to himself that he had never been this hard, ever, and he couldn't go back on duty like this and he shoved his hands under his robe and it had only taken a couple of strokes...

The force of his orgasm brought him to his knees - how he didn't cry out, he'd never know.

Then the shame washed over him.

What had he done?

Something she wanted him to do, that much was obvious - there had been no attempts at spells, no resistance, no pleas for mercy. He'd tied her down with part of her own robe, for Andraste's sake, and she hadn't even tried to get away.

Oh maker, he was in so much trouble. He knew what she'd be doing now - running to Greagoir and telling him. Showing him her bruises, and the marks the fabric left on her skin as proof. Any moment know they'd come storming up the hall and take him away - if he was lucky, another circle, if he wasn't...well...

His determination returned. He'd not show fear. He would be emotionless, and whever they sent him, he'd get out, and he'd come back, and he'd beat her.

She was still outside when he stepped back to his post - to gloat, maybe? He didn't look, staring straight ahead, keeping the Chant in his mind.

After a few seconds, she left.

And he waiting.

And waited.

It wasn't until sundown that the Knight-Commander appeared, looking...bemused?

"Cullen, lad, I know this is punishment duty, but this is over doing it, don't you think?"

Cullen stared at him as if he'd grown a second head, but Greagoir continued. "Your duty was over hours ago - come on now, you'll miss dinner."

Shaking his head, Greagoir left, and Cullen had to hurry to catch up with him, wanting to say something, but not sure he should.

Together, they headed down the stairs of the tower and into the hall where everyone ate together these days.

"Oh hero!" His head turned automatically to see the conversation, but at Greagoir's sharp look, turned away again, straining his ears nontheless.

"You're looking flushed - are you well?" It was one of the older mages asking her, and he held his breath, waiting for her reply.

"Oh? Oh! Yes, sorry, I fell asleep in a sunbeam today," the women he'd had bent over a table this morning answered with a wry smile as she sat - gingerly, he noticed - down beside the speaker at the table. "I think I need a few less late nights!"

The other mage smiled and replied, but Cullen didn't catch what it was. He was too busy scrabbling for answers inside his own head.

Fell asleep? In a sunbeam?

She couldn't be serious.

But apparently, she was, and everyone else was buying it. No one was looking at him strangely, or casting odd glances her way.

It was all...normal.

As he collected his dish - stew, they always seemed to have stew these days - he seated himself at the table and stared blankly at it.

He didn't understand. At all. The possibilities and complications were chasing each others tails and he icouldn't understand/i.

Fucking mages, he settled on with a internal growl.


	5. Chapter 5

She spent the next week feeling as if she was in some sort of dream state - half the time, she couldn't believe what had happened was real.

Two things convinced her that she hadn't just hallucinated it. The first was the bruises that littered her behind and made her suck in a breath between her teeth whenever she sat down on something that wasn't padded.

The second was the frustration.

She knew how to 'please herself'. Her time with Alistair had taught her that much - they'd spent so long gently exploring each other and themselves, and there had been a night when they'd done nothing but watch each other...

...but the problem was, right now, she didn't want gentle. Or understanding. She wanted hot and hard and heavy and edged with pain and for the control not to be hers...in the end, she wanted Cullen.

It wasn't until she'd spent over an hour in a private bathtub three days later, using her own fingers until she felt bruised in a desperate attempt to put out the burning inside her that she admitted it, however.

So she went looking. Not to actually do anything, she promised herself. Just to look. To see. To check if there was any chance, even the slimmest of possibilities that he was looking as ruffled as she felt.

As it turned out - he wasn't. And he was never alone either. He was always with someone or in a public place. The library, or training a new templar who was so fresh she could have sworn he squeaked when he walked. Or talking with the dwarven builders who had arrived to help rebuild. Or walking solemnly behind Greagoir with his eyes on the older man and never, never meeting her eyes, not even flicking a glance her way.

It was enough to make her want to try shapeshifting again, just so that when she tried climbing the walls out of frustration, she'd actually get somewhere.

Her sleep started becoming fitful again. Her appetite decreased. At her morning training, she was midway through a tumble when she was possessed by a sudden urge to blowup the rose bushes, and only her memory of Wynne's fondness for them stopped her.

A little over a week after it had happened, she was sat in an armchair in the library, trying desperately to concentrate on documentation of an old treaty that had been set up between the magi and the wardens which she figured might be useful for her to know, when she realised she was uncomfortable.

She shifted, tucking her feet under her.

No, that wasn't it.

Sprawled so her feet dangled off the end of the arm chair? No. The floor? No. Was she too cold maybe? She stoked the fire, and then cursed in Elvish (Zevran had never told her what it meant but every time she came out with it, he grinned mightily) when she realised it was now far too warm.

With a snarl of frustration, she threw the book across the room.

It impacted with the far bookcase and exploded in a shower of old brown parchment a second after Cullen walked through the door.

His eyes snapped to hers, and for a second, she couldn't move. Couldn't breath, couldn't think, beyond a sudden surge of empathy for any rodent caught in the glare of a snake. She was only aware that if her longing had been bad before, now she'd die of it, because that was the look, right there, he'd given her before-

Without a word, he swung around and strode out, the doors swinging shut behind him.

She could have cried.

She nearly did the next day when a messenger from Alistair arrived, to discuss her 'financial situation' as he delicately put it.

Apparently the crown wanted to be sure she never lacked for anything again. Their way of thanking her, apparently - she bit down on her tongue to make sure her internal grumblings about the king being a stuffed shirt who should look before he leapt and went breaking people's hearts never made it out of her mouth.

And then they put all these pieces of parchment in front of her, offering this option or that, this piece of land, or this townhouse, which would she prefer, and if she could just tell them what she wanted here, then maybe they could...

And she stared down at scribbles that promised her more gold than she'd ever thought she'd see in her life and just wanted to run away. Why were they asking _her?_ She'd never wanted to be rich, or own lands, or have people beholden to her, and she had no idea how Alistair had thought he was going to get half of this past the Chantry because that was a fight she didn't want to have.

"Go away."

She hadn't realised she'd spoken until the clerks' face had gone pale. "I'm sorry, my lady?"

So she was 'my lady' now? Great. When she next saw Alistair, she was going to black his eye.

"Go. Away." She growled out from behind her teeth. The poor man looked like he was going to cry, and she sighed, her resolve cracking. "Look, I'm just...not good with this sort of thing and you've caught me in a bad mood. Maybe if you leave them for me to look over, we can resume this again in a couple of days?"

Lower lip still a-tremble, he hurried out, casting a hurt glance over his shoulder as he went and she wanted to scream. Why would people not just let her be? Was there something wrong with wanting to just be a mage in the circle?

The papers seemed to haunt her when she lay down to sleep that night. Because she didn't sleep. She tossed and turned, and at one point shoved her hands down between her legs to stroke her folds which seemed to be slick more often than not nowadays only to stop when it did nothing for her.

At about three hours past midnight, she gave up, and got up, throwing a light robe over her head without bothering with small clothes or shoes, because it was summer, and while the tower might be drafty, it really wasn't as bad as it could have been. Maybe wandering the halls for a bit would help.

She didn't know how she ended up stood in the middle of the wing where the Templars slept. She certainly wasn't aware how she ended up stood specifically outside Cullen's quarters.

Slowly, and to be honest, not making much of a move to stop them, she watched her hands carefully, quietly try the door, and felt a frown flit across her face at it's resistance. Latched, she realised. But not locked.

Latches were easy. She wasn't Leiliana, or Zevran, but she could deal with a latch or three - all it took was a little telekinesis to lift it, and a spark of lightening to jerk it free when it got stuck, and the door suddenly was swinging open, silently, thank the Marker.

She eased in through the gap, and turned to press the door closed, pushing the latch back into place as quietly as she could.

Then she turned to find Cullen, awake and in nothing more than the Templar kilt, the point of his sword at her throat.

She swallowed, staring at him.

He stared back, his gaze dark and promising a storm ahead. "What do you want?"

'_I don't know,'_ she wanted to say. Which was a ridiculous answer, but was still probably better than _'That thing you did before, which left you looking horrified and kicking me out of the room? I was wondering if we could do that again, only more.'_

She stared at him, wondering what the hell she could say, when her mouth opened without her willing it to - she was going to have to have a stern word with her body parts at the way they kept carrying on without her permission - and said "I nearly let Jowan escape."

He stared at her. She stared back, but it seemed that once she started, she couldn't stop. "I didn't mean to, but they were going to make him Tranquil, and I didn't know he was a blood mage, I swear it, but then, at Redcliffe, I nearly did it again, and if it wasn't for-" It hit her just as the words were going to come out, that maybe referring to her apostate companion by name in front of the templar with a blade to her throat wasn't the most _sensible_ of ideas. "If it wasn't for one of my travelling companions, I'd have let him go again."

She paused for breath, feeling it was ok to gulp air more freely now the sword had dropped away from her as he stared now more in disbelief than anything else, the blade returning to hang limply at his side. But her traitorous mouth wasn't done yet. "And I should have saved them at Redcliffe, but I didn't, because I was too slow, and in Orzammar, I destroyed the thing that might have helped us win against the darkspawn forever, but I couldn't condemn more people to become those things, I couldn't," she was babbling, no stopping it, and all she could do was pray that she wasn't about to come out with something that would get her killed.

"And I killed all those people, who were worshipping the dragon, I didn't even try to make them see sense, to see the truth, I just killed them, even the little ones, when they could have been saved, I'm sure of it, and..."

And it was all coming out, everything she'd ever felt guilty over from the entire wretched business, from letting Duncan die, to touching things she knew she shouldn't in the fade, everything was spilling out of her mouth, everything except the thing that actually haunted her dreams.

_'I persuaded the king into something I'm fairly sure was a blood ritual,'_ she wanted to say. _'I made him sire a child that will become a god with one of the most heartless women I've ever met, all because I was too chicken to die with the Archdemon. I saved the world, but I'm more certain than I've been of anything for a while that this will come back to bite us in the arse in about twenty years time, and I don't know if we'll have a way to stop it.'_

But thankfully, she didn't say that, she just came back to herself several minutes later gasping for breath and repeating the words "I'm sorry" over and over again while staring at Cullen's bare chest.

A very nice chest, some horribly detached part of her noted. The best she'd ever seen actually - like someone had taken the best parts of every chest in the world and stuck them into one person. Almost too perfect to be true.

She was interrupted from her thoughts when he surged forward and grabbed her by both arms, his hands harsh and bruising and she could have wept from the relief.

"Do you know what you're doing?" His voice was harsh, and he gave her a shake as if to punctuate his point before dragging her further into the room. She got the barest glimpse of an armchair before he sat, dragging her over his lap, eliciting a yelp of surprise from her.

Her robe was dragged up again, and she felt him pause at her lack of underthings before his hand came down on her still-slightly-sore arse.

She yelped again, hands going to the floor to brace herself, and he swore; the next thing she knew, a loop of fabric had been draped around her face and tied at the back of her head, not quite gagging her but muffling her cries. _'His sash' _the part of her mind that was detached from all this remarked.

His hand returned to her behind, spanking again, and again, and again, and she was writhing from the pain, and from the release of knowing that she no longer had to be in control, that he was, forcibly was, and she could just let it go.

When the next blow failed to fall, she froze, trapping the whimper that wanted to come out in her throat just in case it happened again, just in case he froze and realised what he was doing and kicked her out.

Instead, the hand returned to her behind, smoothing across the skin, soothing.

"Are you truly sorry?"

She nodded vigorously, saying 'yes ser' behind her gag but it came out muffled and unintelligible.

His voice hardened. "I don't think you are." And his hand came down again – this time she could never tell where the blow would fall. Previously, it had all been in one spot, but now his hand could land squarely, or only make glancing contact in a way that left her skin stinging and flushed, the blows landing on her cheeks, between them, on the back of her thighs, until her head spun and she barely knew which way was up. The only things she did know was that tears were streaming down her cheeks (why she was crying, she didn't know – she didn't want him to stop, it didn't hurt that bad, wasn't sad, but still the tears came) and that pressing into her stomach, under his kilt, she could feel something hot and stiff and maybe, just maybe, she wasn't the only one who was enjoying this fucked up thing that was developing between them.

He stopped again, his hand gliding over her skin again, and she whimpered.

His hand moved lower, and she was so glad she was gagged, because at least now he couldn't tell what words were coming out of her mouth, even if she couldn't stop saying _'oh, maker, yes, Ser, please, please, please,'_ and his fingers dipped in and touched her and by Andraste, she was streaming.

It was the sweetest agony she'd ever known, feeling him explore oh so gently. It made her want to scream – the touch wasn't nearly enough for her. All it was doing was making her wetter – she spread her legs to try and encourage him, but the movement only earned her another couple of swats on the back of her thighs before he went right back to what he was doing.

Was it possible to die from arousal? If so, she was in danger of expiring here.

It startled her when the hand that had been resting on her lower back, pinning her down, instead moved to her shoulder, pulling her up and yanking her over his shoulder as he stood. She got a brief glimpse his back, and of the floor yawning away from her as he crossed the room, before she was put down again, her back impacting with bed covers.

Maker above she was in his _bed._

She stared at him. He stared down at her – she realised in all the shaking and the pulling, the laces of her robe had come loose and it had slid from her shoulders to bunch around her waist, exposing her breasts, and trapping her hands, one on each side of her waist.

The hunger in his eyes made her breath catch.

He was on her in a heartbeat, one hand tugging her gag away, the other skimming over her waist, up her ribcage to encircle one breast where the nipple was standing to attention so hard she was surprised it hadn't found a way to salute.

"Say it," his voice was harsh in her ear, his breath over her neck making her tremble, addling her even further so it took a couple of seconds to grasp what he was asking.

"I'm sorry!" she gasped as loudly as she dared, biting back a cry and writing under him when that circling hand closed in a hard pinch on her nipple. "I'm sorry ser!"

"Do you want me to touch you?" The hand moved to the other nipple, pinching, then smoothing, then a light swat.

"Yes ser!" She could feel him pressed against her hip through their clothes, taking full advantage of the writhing he was making her do, and somehow the thought just made her hotter. "Please ser, yes!"

He leaned in again, this time so close his lips actually brushed her ear as he spoke, making her shiver uncontrollably.

"Beg me."

"Please ser!" the words exploded out of her as he slid lower, tugging up her robes until they became just a bunch of fabric around her waist, entrapping her hands further. "Oh please ser, please, I need it, please don't stop-"

With gentle but firm hands, he spread her legs, his head still bending down as she felt his fingers whisper over her wet folds.

Was he-?

"I'll do anything," she gasped. Yes, he was, as the sleek red-gold head dipped. "Please ser, oh Maker, so good, please don't-"

Her words cut off as she struggled not to scream at the first touch of his tongue on her clit, two of his fingers ramming into her, making her back arch and stars float behind her eyelids, and Maker, she was so close!

And she couldn't have shut up now if she wanted to – she, who never normally said a word, whose trysts with Alistair had been done in hushed silence punctuated by conspiratorial grins, couldn't stop talking, as his tongue circled her clit and his fingers stabbed in and out of her and she thought the pleasure of it all might actually cause her heart to stop. "Maker yes, right there, oh, so good, please ser, please don't stop, yes, yes, please, need it, like that, yes, please, oh, yes, oh, oh, OH-!"

She came in a shower of stars and for a second, she could have sworn she actually saw the face of the Maker. She was vaguely aware that he had freed the hand that had been holding her open to reach up and put across her mouth in an attempt to muffle her cries, and when she came back to herself, she could smell her own juices on his fingers.

He came back up, and the wetness she could see around his mouth caused an irrational return of arousal. _'You're kidding me! How, in Thedas, can I possibly still have the ability to get hot after __**that**__ sort of release?'_

She spent so long staring at him that it took her a couple of seconds to realise that he was trying to tug her robe back into place with hands far gentler than she'd have expected.

She frowned even as she obeyed. _'But you haven't...'_ she thought. And she knew he was aroused. She could see the fabric of his kilt tenting at his groin.

But he made no further move to touch her, or himself, he just helped her reassemble herself, and then put one hand lightly on her lower back and steered her in the direction of the door.

She wanted to stop. She wanted to ask, to offer...

And then their eyes met, and she knew she wouldn't. She would trust him. He had the control here, and if for some reason, he didn't want to, she would obey that, even if she didn't know the reason.

Maker, but it felt so nice to be able to do what another had decided!

The night felt warmer than it had been, and she was asleep the second her head touched the pillow.

The next morning, she clerk found a pile of documents, all annotated, initialled and signed in the appropriate places waiting for him.

And if he disapproved of the fact she'd donated most of the offer to the Denerim Alienage, she couldn't find it in herself to care. They would need more help rebuilding than most, and it wasn't like she needed it. She had everything she needed for the moment right here.


	6. Chapter 6a

She was going to drive him mad.

It was the only motivation he'd been able to grasp from her actions. Even once his punishment had been over, he'd done his best to stay away, to stick to populated areas, to places where it wouldn't happen again.

Because it mustn't. It should never have happened in the first place. And he had no idea whether it was mercy or something else that was more malicious that made her hold her tongue about what had passed between them, but either made him both grateful and wary.

Every time she walked past and she did so frequently, he noted, possibly more frequently than she should? He pushed the thought away he felt himself flush with shame. How could he have done that? How could he have treated anyone that way, never mind the Hero of Ferelden?

Fine, he was now mostly sure only mostly, this could all be some big plan that he hadn't picked up on that she wasn't a demon. But even mages he had known damn well had been demons he hadn't Oh Maker! - put them over a bench and spanked them. They'd been given a dignified death where possible, and where it wasn't, they'd been put down as quickly as he could manage to prevent more deaths than just theirs.

No, no, apparently that sort of humiliating treatment he saved for the one person that the entire realm was beholden to for their continued existence.

Andraste help him, but whatever had gotten into him, he prayed it never came back.

But it did every night, when he dreamed. Every single time he put his head down and fell asleep, she would be there, and he would do it all again. And sometimes it was different, sometimes he didn't stop, sometimes he ended up doing things to her...

And then he'd wake in a sweat which he'd tell himself was from fear, but inside he knew it wasn't, as he slipped hands under the covers to where he throbbed to bring himself to a fast, shameful release.

If this was anything like being haunted by demons in the fade, his appreciation for the one who had invented the rite of Tranquility went up a notch.

A week after, he was looking for Greagoir and strode into the library just in time to see her throw a very old probably very valuable book across the room as if it was nothing but scrap.

The arousal hit him like a physical blow, making him freeze as she stared at him like a deer waiting for the killing blow of a hunters blade.

Inside him, a terrible war sprung up, between the part of him that was screaming that he should get out, that it was just the two of them in here, and this was dangerous, and the other half that told him to get over there and...

...he didn't give himself time to finish that thought, turning and all but running out and into the corridor, past the apprentice dormitories, through the main gates and out to the dock, which was mercifully deserted.

There, he sat on a pile of crates and put his head in his hands. What was happening to him?

The lack of answer haunted him - he slept fitfully that night, tossing and turning and eventually rising early. Early enough that he was the one who saw in the King's messenger for her, waving him into one of the guest rooms until she was free to see him.

And then he took himself off and spent the day chopping firewood, hoping, hoping it would tire him out, and take him away from a worry that had set up in the back of his mind ever since the messenger had walked through the door...

By the Maker, what if it wasn't Greagoir she was going to tell? What if it was _the king?_

_What if she was leaving?_ whispered a traitorous voice inside him and he stamped it down, because her absence should not be something he was afraid of.

He spent several hours that night in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Sleep evading him for more than a few minutes at a time, again.

Eventually, he decided he couldn't stand it any more - he'd get up and locate the most boring book in the library; that ought to send him to sleep. Find some hot cocoa maybe. Top it up with dwarven whiskey if he had to.

Not bothering with a light - his new quarters were large but his belongings were sparse, a chair, a bed, a wardrobe and a small table held everything he owned - he found his kilt in the dark and slid it on, wrapping the sashes around his hips to secure it. He was wondering whether he should bother with the full armour, or just the padded jerkin when he heard the latch on his door click.

He moved on instinct, bending and retrieving his sword from its place by his bed silently, drawing it and padding to the door without a sound, where a slight figure had just slipped in and was closing it behind them...

It was only when she turned did he realise whose throat, exactly, he was holding a blade to.

They stared at each other in the dim light. "What do you want?" He said, his voice lower than he'd intended. Somehow the dim light made it easier to face her, to speak to her.

He tensed - any moment now, he told himself. Any moment and there would be a rush of magic over his skin and a blinding light, followed by a roar and an abomination would stand where she did.

Any moment...

"I nearly let Jowan get away."

He blinked at her. _'What?'_

She kept talking - saying she hadn't known he was a blood mage, and then going on to talk about something that would have helped in the fight against the dark spawn, then dragons, and onto something about werewolves, the far away look in her eye telling him that maybe she hadn't quite planned on coming out with this.

And Maker, he never considered that she might have done something she'd considered wrong - she was the Hero of Ferelden. The saviour of the people, the favourite of the king, the stuff of legend. He never realised she might not hold the same glowing opinion of herself that everyone else did. Never thought that maybe she was as haunted by the 'what if's as he was by her.

She was still going - most of what she was saying made very little sense, something about the Qunari, so he was willing to bet she wasn't bothering on giving him context - and for a second he was tempted to put the sword down and gently take her to the nearest Chantry and leave her there to make her confession; he couldn't understand why she hadn't done so already.

It blindsided him about the same time as she started apologising. The Chantry would murmur vague nonsensical things about the Maker's forgiveness and leave it at that. There would be nothing that made her feel like she had made up the debt, nothing to even things out, no penance.

The thought brought a surge of heat to the back of his mind - she wanted penance? He'd give her penance.

He didn't remember making the decision to grab her, but he did. "Do you know what you're doing?" He demanded. He didn't say what he meant: _'do you know what you're doing **to me?'**_

Instead he dragged her over his lap and hiked up her robe before realising - Maker, if he got any harder, he might actually pass out from the lack of blood to his head - she wasn't wearing any small clothes.

It was probably a credit to the willpower instilled by the Templar training that he didn't groan, even when he could feel his cock jabbing into her stomach.

At the first blow, she cried out, making him surge with panic that someone would hear; he had wrapped one of his own sashes around her mouth before he remembered that the surrounding rooms were empty and there was no one to hear.

He lost track then - he just remembered asking if she was sorry, and kept the blows going until eventually he could feel her start to sag.

Then he stopped. And he meant, by the Maker, he swore he meant to put her back on her feet and send her on her way. Instead, he rested his hand on her behind, which was now pleasingly flushed and warm from his efforts.

He could feel her tremble at the touch, the vibrations seemingly going straight to his cock.

He slid his hand lower, and she whimpered, the sound like music, until his fingers touched her and by Andraste's grace, she was wet.

Part of him wanted to exult that she was enjoying this as much as he was. The other part wanted to know what the hell was wrong with the pair of them.

His fingers kept moving, exploring, until she writhed on his lap, putting pressure on him against her stomach, and before he knew it, he'd yanked her up, thrown her over his shoulder, walked the handful of steps to his bed and tossed her down again.

And then stopped and stared at the now bare breasted woman in front of him, lying strewn and debauched across his covers and by the Maker, he wanted her.

'Don't fuck her,' a voice inside of him warned. He wouldn't - he couldn't. That would be fraternising with mages. What this was, he had no idea, but he couldn't...couldn't bring himself to do that. To go directly against his vows like that. Not...not now.

Instead, he fell half onto her, grinding his erection against the feather mattress as he breathed words into her ear and fought the temptation to lick the sweat stained skin beneath on her neck.

He won. Barely.

"Beg me." It wasn't until he said it that he realised how much he needed to hear it. To hear solid proof, undeniable in its integrity, that this wasn't just him, that this is what she wanted, that he wasn't forcing her, forcing himself onto her; it shattered a weight that had been at the back of his mind.

Her pleas made him harder, and he slid down to use his mouth so he wouldn't be tempted to do something he'd not forgive himself for later, her softness under his fingers and her taste on his lips nearly his undoing.

All too soon, she arched and gasped and, he realised, if she screamed then people _would_ hear, so he put his hand across her mouth which muffled it some but not all.

In the end, he was glad she apparently needed a few minutes to lay and recover, because so did he. Maker, but it would be so easy, so easy, to move up between her spread legs and push his kilt out of the way and sink into that wet heat while she cried and came beneath him...

No. He couldn't. He mustn't. He tugged at her clothes half heartedly, trying to ignore the surprised look she gave him before she cooperated. Tried to ignore how she paused when he gently steered her in the direction of the door.

_'Please don't ask me,'_ he begged her silently. _'Please just go, because if you tell me you want me like that, I don't think I'll be able to say no, Andraste help me, but don't say it.'_

As if she heard his thoughts, a look of acceptance washed across her face, and as silently as she arrived, she slipped out again, leaving him sweat soaked and rock-hard, her taste and smell still on his lips and fingers, his hand already burying beneath his kilt to stroke once, twice, a third time and however much he wanted to savour it, to make it last, he couldn't, he was, he was...

He could actually feel his eyes roll back in his head as he came, and hoped this wouldn't make him pass out because being found with a head injury due to this was not something he wanted on his file.

He didn't remember lying down after that, but he must have done, because he slept so hard that a new recruit actually had to knock on his door and tell him that they were clearing away the breakfast things and if he didn't hurry, he'd have to go hungry until lunch.

The circle might have been all but destroyed, and they might have been left with only one mage in ten, and one templar in ten alive and able, but that didn't stop more mages from arriving.

Most were children, although thanks to the Hero's actions, no longer did they arrive with a haunted look caused by the removal of family affection the second their powers surfaced. Now many seemed somewhat pleased to be here. They even had to send one precocious pair back, after they admitted to Merin on the boat over that they weren't actually mages, they just wanted to meet the Hero of Ferelden.

Greagoir had chuckled in amusement at that, but it made Cullen want to tear his hair out in frustration. The Blight might be over, but had everyone in the world forgotten the _reason_ the Templars were here in the first place? Had they forgotten it wasn't the Blight that had brought the circle to is knees, killed most of them and left the rest with nightmares that wouldn't be leaving for a while? How could they be so blas when parts of the tower were still knee-deep in debris?

Mages, he thought sourly on evening as he watched Irving make a quiet comment to Greagoir and the pair share a chuckle, are not supposed to be our friends.

Then she entered the room and he was left torn between feeling like the worst sort of hypocrite and wanted to protest that whatever it was that was between them, it certainly wasn't _friendship_. He had friends. None of them had he-

He stopped that thought right there in case he flushed and then someone might ask him what was wrong. Because it really, _really_ wasn't memories of what happened in the tower that were haunting _hi_s dreams lately.

But they had some older arrivals as well. Most were teenagers, hidden by their families until, in their immense teenage knowledge, they'd underestimated how vigilant the Templars could be and gotten caught doing something stupid, and were sulky and unrepentant at being dragged here.

Which suited Cullen fine. Sulky and unrepentant was his speciality, especially when they realised that whatever parlour tricks they'd taught themselves wouldn't work on him and would earn them a day in solitary with no food.

Few and far between were the actual sworn apostates, the adults with a political objection, or a reason for wanting to be out of their control.

They'd only had two of those. One was a woman, a serial-escapee who claimed she simply wanted to see the world. She managed to drug her attendants soup the first night there and was gone again by morning.

Cullen had been amazed that the Templar who now had to set out after her again bore no ill will.

She's a good sort, for a mage, the other man had explained with a wry grin as he was getting into the boat on the dock. She means it when she says she just wants to see the world normally, I end up catching up because she's stopped to heal some bunch of peasants and forgotten to move on again fast enough. One time I got caught in an avalanche and she actually came back to help me out. And besides, he'd shouted out to Cullen as the boat pulled away. This way, I get to see the world too!

Cullen had ground his teeth in silent desperation had everyone gone mad?

The second had been truly dangerous. They'd had to knock him out for the boat trip across, for fear he might try to drown either himself or the four Templars escorting him.

When he woke up, the first thing he did was spit in Irving's face, calling him a 'Chantry sycophant'.

He could actually _feel_ Greagoir beside him bristle.

Three days in solitary, and he'd still come out hissing and spitting. Literally.

Cullen's fists had itched wanting to beat some respect into him. He didn't sleep well that night.

In the morning, it was his turn to check on the apostate they'd taken to drugging him and tying him to his bed at night to prevent him from doing any harm. Cullen personally knew that he'd be undergoing the rite of Tranquility as soon as they could find sufficient lyrium for the brand, but right now they were running low.

He took Merin, who'd been shadowing him for a few days the recruit was eager, but green as they came, and looked a little pale as Cullen unlocked the cell door.

"It'll be-" Cullen had started saying, but whatever platitude he'd been about to spout dried in his mouth, as they opened the cell door in time to see the apostate conscious, desperately rubbing what looked like a buckle against the pulse point on his wrist.

Cullen didn't make it two steps into the room before he drew blood.

He must have had a standing arrangement with something in the fade, because the abominations were there almost instantly. Four of them, surrounding him, while the apostate's body suddenly bent in a way it wasn't supposed to, and there was an enormous **_crack!_** that split the air and what was on the bed was no longer human, but was huge and covered in spines and tearing away the binding that had held it down as easily as if they were spider webs.

Behind him, he could hear Merin screaming the alarm; he just narrowed his eyes, and lifted his sword.

The abominations must have been unused to this plane two of them swung at him at once and both missed. He charged between them, beheading one as he whirled his sword around, above his head, and then brought it down on the second. It had been too slow to turn, so the blade bit midway between it's shoulder and neck, bisecting most of it's rib cage. He twisted the blade for good measure before he yanked it out, and both beings slid to the floor, shaking briefly and then going still.

The other two hissed and flew at him, and he wished he had his shield. Instead, he focused on blocking their blows, waiting until one got close enough-there! He kicked at about where it's knee should be, and was rewarded with a howl of pain when his heavily armoured boot dug in and he felt something _give way_ under it. He yanked his eating dagger out of his belt and shoved it into the soft underside of the thing's jaw as it flailed, it's hands going to its injured body part, and was rewarded hearing it gurgle as it dropped.

He didn't bother to watch to make sure it stayed still. The other was thrown off balance by its lack of companion, and he attacked now, aggressively, forcing it onto the defensive, looking for an opening. His sword swung through the standard attacks when he noticed it's block on the left hand side was a tad too low, andhe swung in to take advantage, his blade biting through it's belly and leaving it helpless.

He didn't bother with the killing blow for now, just pushed past it and went after the demon, who had been focusing on Merin. The recruit was lying on the floor of the corridor, his leg bent at an unnatural angle, skin grey and his eyes glazed as he desperately blocked the monster's blows it was playing with him.

It heard him coming and turned, backing out of the room and out of Merin's reach, magic coming out of in a wave to thunder down on Cullen.

He drank it in, the spell dying as it hit him. The demon tried again, and again, and Cullen continued on after it, now so full of magic he was starting to feel a little light headed.

It backed up against a wall, panicked, realising it had run into a dead end. Cullen sped up, running at it now.

"Wait!" Its voice was like everything awful he'd ever heard in the world all at the same time. "We can make a deal!"

He launched himself, his blade hitting the thing's chest dead on, his weight and the momentum of his leap forcing it through the armour plating on the outside and into it's chest. It flailed around him, foul smelling black blood dripping from its lips, until he twisted and jerked the sword, shredding the things insides. Then it went still.

"Fuck you," he told the corpse.

_Author's note: I'm now away from the internet until next week, so there is going to be a bit of a lull until the next update. Sorry folks._


	7. Chapter 6b

He wasn't sure how long he remained standing there, staring down at it – he only realised the others arrived when Greagoir put his hand on his shoulder.

"Cullen!" he shouted, but his voice seemed to be coming from a long way away, and the world seemed to be floating and not as serious as it had been a minute ago. "Maker above, how much magic did you absorb? We'll have to get Irving to siphon some off you, all right?"

Irving? No. Irving had been stuck in a room with monsters and now might be a monster and he didn't want Irving. He couldn't trust Irving.

"No." He tried to say, but the word twisted away from his mouth like a ribbon of smoke, becoming twisted and indistinct, so he shook his head vigorously for good measure, and then wished he hadn't when the world spun obligingly.

Over Greagoir's shoulder, he could see Merin being carried away – he was now a _very_ funny colour, which made Cullen want to giggle, but he didn't, because that wasn't supposed to be something you should giggle about, although he couldn't remember _why_ exactly.

"No? Cullen," Greagoir was still speaking, all out of focus as he was, and Cullen had to squint at him to reassure himself it actually _was_ Greagoir, and not some indistinct-blob demon trying to fool him.

Did they even have indistinct-blob demons? They should. Then he could laugh at them. The thought made him grin, until the knight-commander took him by both shoulders and shook him slightly.

"Cullen, you're magic-drunk, we can't just leave you like this, it's too much! Irving has to siphon some off you, it will take too long to dissipate on its own!"

Greagoir didn't understand, he thought crossly. He didn't have a problem with taking some off, although he'd be sad to see the happy, floating feeling go – he just had a problem with Irving.

"Not Irving," he managed, but even to him the words sounded slurred. He tried to say her name, because he knew she _wasn't_ a monster, but he wasn't sure he got it right, his tongue being all disobedient as it was. He briefly pondered if he should bite it to teach it a lesson.

Greagoir seemed to have understood him though, because he was frowning slightly. "Are you sure?"

Cullen nodded, and then watched as the world bounced.

"Well, I'll ask," said Greagoir from far away, sounding doubtful. Cullen wanted to scoff at him – of course Greagoir wouldn't know that she would help him. Because Greagoir didn't know that Cullen had tested her not-monster-ness quite thoroughly, and she'd _liked_ it, and he'd _liked_ it, and the memory was enough to put a silly smile on his face...

...and then he remembered that that was Serious Stuff, and he shouldn't think about Serious Stuff, because then he might talk about Serious Stuff, and that was Bad, because no one was supposed to know.

So he stopped smiling and tried to look as serious as Greagoir just had. But he couldn't be sure his tongue wasn't going to disobey again – he tried to stick it out to check on it, but it was hard to look at. So, keeping it stuck out, he bit down on it to keep it in place.

And then he stood to attention, because that's what Templars _did_. And _he_ was a Templar. And a good one, he thought with no small amount of pride.

She arrived a couple of minutes later at a run looking worried and rushed, and found him still like that, standing to attention with his tongue stuck out where he could keep an eye on it, biting just enough to keep it in place.

He tried to tell her he'd not said anything, but it was hard without his tongue, so he gave up and decided he'd tell her once she'd done the thing Greagoir said she needed to do.

"Andraste's flaming knickers," he heard her mutter, "how much lyrium had this guy drunk?"

Greagoir muttered something in reply, but he couldn't hear it, so he continued standing to attention with his tongue, so the knight-commander could see what a good Templar he was.

"Ok Cullen," she said, one soft hand touching his chin to get his attention. "I'm going to drain you a little now – this might feel a bit odd."

It did feel a bit odd. It was like getting drunk in reverse, only over a period of about five minutes, rather than a few hours.

And then he realised he was standing at attention with his tongue stuck out and felt quite stupid. Withdrawing it, he muttered "thank you," to her, trying not to flush, before double-taking.

Maker's breath, was she _glowing?_

"Ah, Greagoir," she said, somewhat breathlessly. "I think I need to blow some of this off. _Now."_

Greagoir was staring at her as well, so this wasn't just his eyesight then. "Ah, yes, the main door to the docks should be open...might I suggest you run?"

She didn't hesitate, but rather hurtled away. Cullen ran after her – the last thing they needed was for her to do damage to herself with this and have no one there to help.

Her hands were already glowing as they hit the entrance hall, and she hadn't gone two steps over the threshold before he could hear her chanting and casting and...by the Maker...

The only way he had to describe it was a tornado of fire, slamming down on the rocks on the edge of the lake with such force it actually _shattered_ them. Waving a hand at it, it followed her gestures along the lakeside, leaving fires in its wake, obliterating everything in its path. The heat it was giving off was so intense that even on this rather cold spring day he could feel the warmth from it on his face a hundred paces away.

He glanced at her, and then openly stared in awe that while wielding this, this unimaginably powerful spell, she was doing it effortlessly – her cheeks were slightly flushed, and she was chewing on her bottom lip in concentration, but frankly, from looking at her you might think she was sat in a slightly-too-warm library trying to work out a new potion recipe, not throwing a force of the Maker around an island.

When it reached the point that it was about to disappear from view, it stopped, and then wobbled, and then seemed to blow itself out.

He heaved a sigh of relief, before he realised her hands were moving again, and she was chanting again, and what in Thedas was she casting now?

The previously clear sky clouded in seconds, and a blast of cold air washed over them before the heavens opened and...was that ice?

It was, an ice storm like he'd only ever seen in the depths of the worst winter, freezing everything beneath it. With one graceful wave of a hand, she sent it slowly sweeping up the trail of devastation left by the fire spin, putting out any remaining flames and then encasing them in ice for good measure.

She stopped it at the same point she'd stopped the fire, and as swiftly as the clouds had appeared, they disappeared again. She was slightly out of breath and her cheeks were pink with exertion, but looking at her, she certainly didn't seem put out in the slightest. As a matter of fact, he thought, he'd seem her put more effort into climbing some of the stair cases.

Andraste help him, but how much _power_ did she have?

She met his eyes, and he didn't see the glee, or the satisfaction he expected to see in them, that he would bet a large amount of money he'd see in any other mages' eyes who'd just pulled that off – he saw fear, and trepidation, and anxiety. He suddenly understood yet another facet of the complicated woman beside him – if she had that much power, who was there to pull her back if she ever went wrong?

It terrified him. Maker only knew how scared it must make her.

Without saying anything, she slowly turned to head back to the tower and froze.

He whipped around – and swore inside his own head. Did every Templar and mage alike really need to rush to the front of the tower to watch that little display? Apparently so, because in the door way, and in every window they could see right the way up the tower, were people crowded into every available space, most of them staring in open-mouthed awe.

Beside him, he heard her quietly groan. He quite agreed.

That night, he found himself pacing the hallways again. In full armour, sword and shield on and ready.

Greagoir had refused to interrogate any of the other mages or Templars – they'd found lyrium bottles secreted in the apostate's cell. Greagoir insisted the mage must have smuggled them in himself. Cullen insisted they must have been smuggled in for him, and the argument had ended with him getting kicked out of the knight-commander's office.

He cursed, and then aimed a good hard kick at a broken wardrobe that hadn't been removed yet. It didn't help.

Neither did beating the damn thing into splinters, although it did wake the mages in the adjacent rooms, who'd come out and were glaring at him. He glared back, and apparently, he was the scarier mother-fucker, because eventually they dropped their eyes and retreated back to bed.

He strode on, heading up the stairs, welcoming the burn the exertion brought to his muscles.

As it seemed to constantly these days, his mind turned to her, and what they'd done the night before last.

The surprise of it all was still staggering him internally a bit – not only that she'd liked it as a mage, but that she'd liked it as a woman.

Other than a few stolen kisses with a childhood friend before he'd been recruited, Cullen had had exactly one sexual experience with a woman.

At the age of seventeen, and three weeks before he would officially take his vows, their training officer had informed them of an assignment which would have them reporting to the lower part of Denerim, late in the evening.

He and his three fellows had been shocked to find that when they arrived, their training master – Ser Detal'n, he was dead now – stood outside a brothel, looking...somewhere between grim and determined.

His companions had hurtled in happily, but Cullen, gulping and blushing all the way to the roots of his hair, had tried to make his excuses and duck out.

Detal'n had scruffed him by the back of his collar and hauled him back.

"Now lad, see 'ere." He'd been raised in the slums of Denerim before working his way up enough to buy a commission, and he still slipped into the slum cant when he wasn't paying attention. "There's no many lassies who'll be happy with a man who's forever chasing off after blood mages or stuck on a rock in th' middle of a lake. Chances are you'll not be marrying nor having little 'uns of yer own once you take yon vows, so I'm damned if you won't know what you're missin'. And if, after this, you decide it's something you don't want to miss on, you'd prefer having a lass and babies to serving, you drop out good and proper, y'see? I won't have none of mine breaking the covenant and quitting after they've taken the vows, all because of some wench."

And with that, he'd shoved him inside.

Cullen had been booked in with an older woman with skin like leather and hair that was dyed a solid block of black – her room was drab and musty and smelt like it hadn't been aired in years. She'd greeted him with a smile that was cruel and mocking, and demanded he strip before anything else.

Feeling naked in more ways than one, he'd sat gingerly on the stained sheets and used his hands to cover himself, which brought a mocking laugh from his paid-for companion.

"You shy?" She had the same accent Detal'n had. "That's rich, little templar boy! Yon brothers couldn't wait to get in here and unclothed – reckon they'd have tried to fuck the plant pots if we'd left them unattended for too long."

Then she asked what he wanted. He didn't know – he wasn't exactly acquainted with sexual acts; he only knew how babies were made in theory, and the rest was all sniggered dirty talk between the recruits after lights out, which he'd only ever listened to, never contributed.

Stammeringly, he said something he'd once heard the boy in the bed next to him mutter about. The woman rolled her eyes and dropped to her knees, pushing his legs apart and peeling his hands away. "All right, but to swallow will cost yer extra, unnerstand?" Without waiting for an answer, she'd set to work, using hands and mouth.

He hadn't liked it – his body had responded, but it felt too rough, too workman like – it felt like he was a cow that was being milked, and for all the emotion she put into it, he might as well have been.

After a few minutes she stopped. "De'ye want to fuck me now?" She'd enquired. It was the same tone of voice that she might use to ask how much a loaf of bread would set her back. He'd nodded hesitantly, and she pushed him back and straddled him, working up and down with a blank look on her face.

Stammering, he'd asked if he was supposed to touch her anywhere – she was supposed to enjoy this too, right?

The woman had rolled her eyes again. "Here," she took his hand and placed it between her legs. Under his fingers, he could feel a hard nub. "You rub that."

He'd tried, he honestly had, but after a few seconds, she'd snorted and swatted his hand away. "Never mind, I'll do it."

Hand working furiously, she went back to staring into the middle distance still working up and down. After a couple of minutes, she'd gone stiff and paused, eyes shutting, teeth gritting and then shivering all over for a handful of seconds. Then she'd opened her eyes again and looked down at him in distaste. "You not done yet? You take much longer, I'm going to have to charge extra."

She went back to riding him, dispassionately without looking at him. After a couple more minutes, he came, shuddering, and it felt like pleasure and self-disgust. The second she got off him he was scrabbling for his trousers, trying to hide how his eyes had filled with the feeling of shame.

She saw anyway. "Fuck you!" she said with more vehemence than anything else so far, and stormed out of the room, still naked.

He'd never been gladder to see Detal'n and tell him that he was sure he wanted to take his vows.

He was standing outside her door. How he'd gotten there, he couldn't tell, but here he was, and felt torn over it.

He didn't know what he wanted. Didn't know what he needed. He knew it was her, but he didn't know exactly how, and didn't know if he should. Didn't know if it was right, if she'd want it, if now she'd come out with...everything she'd said, would she be done?

He let himself into the room before he could think too hard about it – if she didn't want him, she'd say. She'd send him away. He had to trust that.

Had to, because there was precious little left in the world right now he felt he could trust, and if he lost this, he didn't know what he'd do.

She was still awake, robed in a dressing gown and sat in an armchair in her sitting room, a book open in her lap and a candle on the table beside it to see by.

They stared at each other as he shut the door behind him. "Hi," he managed, although he had to force the words out.

He saw her lips move, saying 'hi' back, for all no sound came out. She lay the book to one side and stood as he crossed over to her. What should he say? He had no idea. _'Would you mind awfully if I bent you over something and went to work, thanks so much'_ didn't exactly ring right.

She waved at the chair she'd just vacated – an unspoken invitation to sit. Normally, he'd refuse, but after today, he was so tired, and facing her here, like this, had made his knees feel not so steady, so he collapsed into it, legs sprawling, letting the sword and shield prop against the side of the chair.

She was looking down at him with a dark, intent gaze. She seemed to be deciding something.

_'Here it comes,'_ he thought wearily. _'This is when she'll tell me to leave.'_ He wondered if she'd be straight forward, or if she'd couch it in polite terms, hiding it behind excuses like it had been a long day and she was tired.

She spoke. "Can I do anything to help you...ser?"

The arousal hit him like a physical blow.

He stared at her, feeling himself go hard. His eyes fell to the dressing gown. "Strip." The word was out of his mouth almost before it had formed in his head.

Gracefully, she shrugged out of the gown; she was naked underneath, and it made his throat go tight. Without a word, she knelt between his legs, looking up at him. Waiting for him, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.

He stared at them – could he...? What if she hated it?

He saw her eyes flicker from his for a split second, down to where his cock was tenting the fabric of his kilt before her gaze returned.

"Your mouth," he said, taking his gloves off so he had something to focus on, so if she didn't want to, she could say something without him having to see the look of disgust on her face. He laid them on the table beside him. "I want you to use it."

She didn't look disgusted, as she leant forward, hands gently tugging the fabric away and pulling him free of his small clothes. She looked curious, intent, almost excited.

His erection sprung free looking almost shamefully eager – she didn't hesitate, but rather ran her tongue up the underside to the head, where a pearl of precum had formed. He groaned through gritted teeth.

Then, with no warning, she took him into her mouth, sucking hard – the shock and pleasure of it almost made him shout in surprise, fingers digging into the arms of the chair until his knuckles were white, fighting the urge to buck his hips. _'I will not,'_ he thought desperately, '_force her in this at all.' _He wanted to move. Wanted to bury his hands in her hair, and force her head down as he thrust, wanted to find release between those soft lips as fast as humanly possible.

_'I will not!'_

She lid her lips lower on his shaft, taking more of him in, tongue and lips working. A moan escaped him when she swallowed around him – her eyes flicked up, and she looked...pleased?

_'She's enjoying this, the minx,'_ he thought raggedly.

One of her hands came up to cup his balls, then gently stroke, the other curving around the base of his shaft, working as her mouth did. He was going to come in a painfully short space of time at this rate.

He couldn't find it in himself to regret it. Between the way her hands were working and the way her eyes kept flicking up at him to gauge his reaction to what she was doing, he didn't think he'd ever been so...important, to anyone, in the entirety of his adult life.

Then she hummed, quietly, just enough so that he could feel the vibrations from the back of her throat travel along his cock and into the rest of him and he came with a bitten off yelp, burying his hands in her hair for all of his noble intentions of keeping them out.

She swallowed all of it, throat working which only served to stimulate his now-very-sensitive head even more.

Then, he was done, suddenly, coming back to himself where he sat sweaty and tired, still in armour, in a mage's dressing room with a naked girl at his feet with his now-softening cock in her mouth and his hands in her hair.

"Good girl," he managed, quietly, drawing her off him slowly.

She seemed to squirm, both pleased and something else at the praise, and a smile sprang to his lips as he realised this had probably gotten her very, very aroused.

Some part of him thought it would be fun to leave her like that, squirming in the heat of it, like he had been for the past few weeks. But the rest of him didn't want to – this was too new, too delicate, too...fragile yet to take that sort of treatment. Besides, to go unfulfilled had been his choice – had he asked sooner, she'd probably have been more than happy to oblige.

He tucked himself away and got to his feet – she watched him do so, not moving until he spoke. "Get up."

She did, rising gracefully to her feet and standing about an arm's distance away. Too far, he thought, closing the distance until he was stood close enough that when she breathed out, the tips of her erect nipples brushed his breastplate. He smiled, and slowly reached out his left arm and grasped her right leg, hand sliding behind her thigh just above the knee, bringing it up so he could pin it to the side of his hip.

She looked slightly surprised, and wobbled slightly, her hands going out on instinct to his shoulders to steady herself, as she was now stood on one leg.

Then he slipped his right hand between them and between her legs. Maker, she was wet. He jabbed two fingers inside her and set up an achingly slow, steady rhythm in and out, his thumb circling her nub lightly, with the liquid to aid him barely making contact.

Her fingers flexed and he could see her throat work to hold back a whimper as she tried not to break eye contact. He kept the rhythm, not increasing the pressure with his thumb at all – he wanted her to work for this.

After a couple of minutes, she wasn't holding back the whimpers anymore, and her body was starting to sweat, he could see it on her skin. Her eyes started to roll back in her head, and she tilted backwards for a second before catching herself and using her grip on his shoulders to bring herself upright again.

He smirked, but didn't increase his rhythm any – watching her struggle seemed to satisfy something deep within him, and he was enjoying this.

She nearly pitched backwards again, and this time rather than bringing herself upright, she actually ended up leaning forward, her forehead pressed against his right shoulder, bead bowed as if in surrender.

Well, he supposed, in a way, she had.

He could hear her begging now, softly, almost under her breath. "Please ser, please ser, please ser," over and over again, her hips working against his fingers, her skin under his left hand slick with sweat.

He kept his rhythm. He wasn't giving it to her yet. He wanted her broken. He wanted all her resistance gone. He wanted her _his_, no questions, nothing held back, all surrendered.

She pressed harder into him, not just her forehead leaning against his breastplate now, but most of her torso, and her pleading had gotten louder. "Do you want it?" he asked her quietly.

With visible effort, she lifted her head to meet his eyes, desperate need in her gaze. "Yes ser, please ser..." her voice shook.

"Tell me."

"I want it ser," he could hear the desperation in her voice now as well. "I want it so badly ser, please, please ser, I need it ser, I need _you_ ser, please..."

_That_ was what he had been looking for – he dug his thumb in and she came immediately, slumping against him as she shook and cried out, and he dropped her leg to wrap a hand around her waist, just in case her legs gave way.

They did, and he ended up holding her up against him, looking down at the top of her bowed head.

For a second he had the strongest urge to press a kiss to her hair. Instead he made do with resting his lips against the top of her head as he spoke. "You should probably get some rest."

She nodded, drawing away to stand – unsteadily – on her own two feet again, flashing a brief, exhausted smile at him.

He smiled back, and, picking up his weaponry before letting himself out, thought maybe now they'd both get some rest.


	8. Chapter 7

She was sleeping better than she had since before Orzammar.

The deep roads had not been a restful place. It was too square, too hot in some places, too cold in others, in the thaig itself, injustice had dogged her sleep at the dwarves treatment of the casteless, and in the roads, dark spawn had been forever there, on the outskirts of her ability to sense, just enough to keep her awareness up, her teeth constantly on edge. She never rested, she dozed at opportune moments, just filling the time between the next watch, the next tunnel, the next fight, the next trap.

She wished she hadn't brought Alistair with her as the same stress took it's toll on him and they both became snappish, arguing with each other over stupid matters close to constantly, in harsh, whispered undertones in an attempt to keep the dispute just between them, but hadn't fooled anyone – when both Oghren and Sten looked uncomfortable, you knew you'd crossed a line.

And then the second they stepped foot back under the sky – the blessed, blessed sky – they'd quick marched to Denerim to meet Eamon, and the Landsmeet, and after that...

...After that, Alistair and what they had been, and the battle with the archdemon looming over them; none of it had been conducive to a good night's sleep.

She wondered if anywhere, in any of the many ballads and epics that were being composed about the entire affair, anyone mentioned exactly how sleep deprived the hero of Ferelden had been when she and her armies had come smashing down on the darkspawn infested city to vanquish modern time's greatest evil.

Probably not.

When a templar had appeared at her door that morning with a pale expression and not bothered to knock first, she'd feared the worst. Alistair was dead. Logain had had hidden allies who'd marched against them. The blight had returned. Uldred had come back from beyond the grave and laid waste to the tower...

And then when the first words out of his mouth had been "There's been an incident - Ser Cullen" she'd not even stopped to hear the rest, but instead been out the door before be could finish, only aware of the great yawning pit of terror that had opened up in the bottom of her stomach, and her terrified internal chant of _'please don't be dead, please don't be dead, I can fix most anything else, please don't be dead'_ as she _flew_ down the stairs faster than she'd ever done before.

So when she'd skidded into the wing where the solitary cells were and come into sight of Cullen at the end of the corridor not only up and breathing but still standing to Maker-blessed _attention_ she'd goggled a bit.

Thankfully, through the crowd of people and the fact that he didn't appear to be looking anywhere but straight in front of him, he didn't see that particular expression on her face.

Greagoir had caught her eye and bent down to have a quiet word in her ear.

"The apostate turned to blood magic, and Cullen killed him, but not before draining off the best part of three good-size lyrium potions."

Over Greagoir's shoulder, she could see the three empty bottles being bundled up with the ruined room and winced. _One_ of those was enough to completely restore even _her_ from empty, to the point where she was up and wide awake and practically bouncing with energy. _Three_...she had no idea anyone not a mage could hold that much. She really didn't want to know what the effects would be if Cullen tried to hold onto it long term – not good, she would guess.

Greagoir's expression was hopeful. "Would you mind...? I know he's been a pain to you, but it would seem he's still not quite over the episode we had here before and doesn't want Irving to do it."

She didn't let herself examine what that meant. That he'd asked for her over the _First Enchanter_. No, not thinking about it.

In much the same way as she was refusing to examine what her reaction when she was told he might be in trouble meant

She wasn't sure she could cope with that right now.

So, instead she'd nodded to Greagoir, and turned to go before he'd tugged her back for a brief second. "Word of warning – he's a little magic-drunk."

_Magic-drunk?_ She'd heard of the condition, she thought as she headed down the corridor. She'd never seen-

He had his tongue sticking out.

She had to stop for a moment to goggle at that as well. _Cullen _was stood to attention with his tongue sticking out.

Not moving his head, he rolled his eyes until he was looking at her. It was possibly the oddest thing she'd ever seen, and was compounded when he made a brief grunting noise before looking slightly frustrated and then going quiet once more.

What was even odder was that she could actually _feel_ the magical power rolling off him – the only other time she'd ever felt that was when Morrigan had shapeshifted while stood _right next_ to her. To feel it coming off someone who was not a mage was...offputting.

"Andraste's flaming knickers," she muttered to Greagoir behind her. "_How_ much lyrium did this guy drink?"

"He'd been kept drugged as well," was Greagoir's quiet reply. "So he probably had his own reserves full on top of that."

She ground her teeth – she didn't like this at all.

"Cullen," she said, but he still wasn't quite looking at her, so she touched his jawline with gentle fingers, trying to get his attention. "I'm going to drain you a little now – this might feel a bit odd."

It was like trying to drink the ocean. The second she opened herself to him, she was overwhelmed by a tide of power swamping her, and for a second struggled to contain it – then she gave up and just let it flow in, allowing it to overrun her defenses. It was too much for her to hold onto anyway – provided she could get it away from Cullen, that was the important thing.

And it just kept coming. Normally this was a brief exchange, a matter of seconds, from one mage to another – sometimes a healer might take power from a battle mage if the fight was over but people were hurt. Sometimes a battle mage might drain a healer if they were out of power and it was looking like unless they could kick off more spells _now_ then there wouldn't be a later to worry about healing people.

She'd never done it to a non-mage before, and she'd never heard, even in mage-to-mage exchanges, of it lasting more than a minute – but as the seconds ticked past, there was no signs of it slowing.

Finally, three minutes and forty-seven seconds later (by her agonised count), Cullen was down to where she thought he should be approximately and she was feeling distinctly unwell.

_Very_ unwell, actually. It was almost like nausea, only rather than fearing she might throw up food, she was worried about magic, and rather than her stomach hurting, it was somewhere altogether less tangible.

And vomit, while highly unpleasant, didn't have the added danger that it could blow people up.

"Ah, Greagoir," she said, somewhat breathlessly, struggling not to retch, either bodily or in spirit. "I think I need to blow some of this off. _Now."_

Greagoir was staring at her – why, she didn't know and didn't have time to work it out. "Ah, yes," he said, his tone thankfully showing he understood her urgency. "The main door to the docks should be open...might I suggest you run?"

She did, armoured footsteps behind her telling her _someone_ was following her, but she didn't have time, time to work it out, time to wait, time even to think about what she would cast. She was already halfway through the mental set up by the time she was out of the door, and got all of two steps before the spell patterns were in her mind, through her hands and _out..._

The fire tornado slammed into the lake side and she almost gagged in relief as she felt the magic go out of her in a _whoosh_. Then narrowed her eyes as it tried to climb up the banks towards the tower.

_'No,'_ she told it inside her head, forcing it back down the sand, along the waters edge with a gesture, the extra magic giving even her slightest whim enough force to flatten a city. _'You'll stay there.'_

The fire didn't want to – it didn't like the water, couldn't burn it.

Under normal circumstances, this would have turned into a battle of wills. But she had _so much power_ that it was almost as easy as drawing a straight line with a quill – she shepherded it across the beach, through rocks that flew out of its way or shattered beneath it, obliterating any wildlife or vegetation in its path.

She could see why the power hungry would want this – it was so easy compared to how she knew it should be, so breathlessly easy it almost felt like marshalling a dream.

The realisation that some part, some small twisted despicable part of her was enjoying this rush of power made her feel suddenly very physically nauseous. She'd seen Uldred, seen apostates, seen Flemeth and the brood mother and the black city and everything that had twisted in this world due to magic. She would not become like them. Could not. She'd die first. Mentally, she locked that part of herself away, deep and tight, and wished there was a way to throw away the key.

The fire had reached the last part of the water's edge she could see, and with a frown and the wave of a hand, she dismissed it. That it went without a whimper concerned her. That she _still_ felt over-full was also worrying.

The trail of devastation the tornado had left in its wake was as obvious as blood on snow – fires still smouldered in parts of the undergrowth – there was a risk they might spread, and she refused to have that. The ice storm was almost shamefully easy to conjure and send sweeping up the same path the fire had.

And then, she was done – she still felt a little stretched, but nothing to how she'd felt before – now it was just like she'd had some lyrium alongside her morning coffee. She'd be buzzed for the rest of the day, but nothing serious.

She turned her head to find Cullen staring at her and her stomach dropped. Would he think her too powerful to be contained? Would he pull away from her, push for her containment?

Maker, she hoped not as they turned back to the tower, the frown still on his face.

It got deeper when they realised that everyone had been watching – in every window, she could see the outline of heads peering around each other too see, bobbling in talk or just open mouthed at the spectacle, the open doorway crowded with bodies jostling for space.

She groaned – this was _not_ what she wanted.

What she wanted, she decided after a long, long day, was a sign that said 'leave me alone'.

Ideally one that said 'PS: No, I won't eat you.'

Because that was what she'd had all day. Everywhere she went – questions. Offers. Cajoling, flattery, outright bribery, quiet gifts with the expectation of reciprocation...from seemingly everyone.

After Cullen had stomped off with Greagoir – Andraste, please don't let it be because he was campaigning to have her made Traquil, please – the rest of the Templars had drawn back, awe and respect in their eyes. The mages had surged forward, some of them polite – reasonably – in their questions.

"Are you all right?"

"Can I get you anything?"

"Would you like some water?"

Some had been more forthright. "How did you learn to do that?"

"Is that a Grey Warden thing?"

And one lad had just asked what they all wanted. "Can you make me like you?"

"No," she'd snapped, and they'd drawn back in fear – not that she'd do something, but that they'd annoyed her, that she wouldn't give them what they wanted.

It was almost as bad as Denerim. She'd taken the opportunity to exit and locked herself in the enchanters bathroom, alone. _'You're supposed to be guarding me for if I go bad,'_ she wanted to scream at the Templars through the door. _'Not watching like it's a travelling circus. And you,'_ mentally, she'd rounded on her fellow mages. _'Do none of you grasp the horror of what it would be like if I was corrupted? Uldred was a __**middling**__ mage – he never could have done what I did today. Why are you not scared of __**what we can do?'**_

But she didn't. Because then she'd be made Tranquil for sure, and if she ever got wind of that happening to her, she and Zevran had a standing arrangement that as soon as he could, ideally before the deed was done but soon after if there was no other way, he'd appear in the night and put a blade through her skull.

She hadn't needed to explain why. After a lifetime in the Crows, he hadn't asked. She could have kissed him for that.

Instead, she took an overly long bath. And then she dressed and headed to the library via the dining room, tucking some bread rolls in her sleeve to smuggle into the library by way of lunch, and settled down in the silent section, which thankfully shook all but the most determined of hangers on. Those that stayed regardless, doubtfully hoping to note which books she read and then read themselves, she decided to fuck with by choosing a tome on Elven history in the original language, and then slogging through with a dictionary.

It was boring, mindless work, and was exactly what she needed. She deliberately worked through the dinner bell, and waited as everyone else drifted away, casting anxious looks in her direction, each obviously wanting to be the one to walk with her as they headed to supper, each so desperate to grasp whatever of her power she could share.

It made her teeth itch, and her heart sink with hoplessness. How were mages ever to shake their stigma, step away from temptation and stop consorting with demons unless they learned discipline, rather than giving in to a lust for power, magical or otherwise?

She didn't know. She took another book – one that she could read without translating this time – and slipped down the backstairs to knock quietly on the servant's entrance to the kitchen. She was lucky, and a combination of puppy-dog eyes and her status got her rewarded with a bowl of thick soup and a doorstop of a sandwich, which she was free to retreat to her rooms with. Unaccompanied and undisturbed.

Even when full with hot soup, she knew sleep wouldn't come easy tonight. She idly wondered if she should find Cullen, but the memory of the look on his face when she cast put paid to any real motivation behind that. She'd scared him. She should probably give him some time before...

She didn't finish that thought. Part of her had been assuming – relying – that what they were doing would become a semi-regular thing. Because she kind of needed it to be. Because she wanted it to be.

But that would be asking something of him that she didn't know whether he'd want to give it. Afterall, if they got caught, she'd probably just have to endure pitying looks for the rest of her life, along with the destruction of her reputation. He...would be ruined. His career brought to its knees, if not finished altogether, his home taken away from him, his savings not enough to support him...

Her throat closed. It wasn't fair of her. She should stop – she was asking too much of him, something he'd never ask of her, she was sure.

She stripped and got into bed, planning to read until she fell asleep or the sun came up, but something about the sheets just didn't feel right. No matter how she plumped the cushions, or turned, or held her book, she just couldn't get comfortable.

Swearing under her breath, she levered herself out of the covers and found her dressing gown.

Would she sleep any better, she wondered wryly, tugging it on and moving her candle to her armchair in her sitting room, if she was in a bedroll under the stars, waiting for her watch to roll around so she could take over from Morrigan and spend her time listening for the dark spawn. Or maybe tucked under a tree in Frostback mountains, grateful for whatever meagre protection it's bare branches offered from the freezing rain, their rolls laid out in the hollows they'd carved out in the snow, all propriety forgotten as they slept in one tight circle in the name of not loosing toes or fingers to frostbite. The one time Sten's fingers started to darken as they approached Orzammar, and the way his face tightened with pain – but of course, he'd never breath a word of complaint – as they chafed the blood back into it within the warmth of the Hall of Heroes, all of them sighing with relief because however much they might complain of the place in the coming months, just for that moment, they were glad to be out of the cold and snow and wet and fog with ground that was forever sloping iup/i...

She read for an hour or so, feeling ever more weary but not tired, when she was roused from her study by footsteps outside her door.

She don't think she could have been more surprised when Cullen slipped in, looking like she felt.

"Hi," he managed.

She tried to say hi back, but no sound came out, for all her lips formed the word.

He was here. _He was here._ Did this mean...he wanted this as much as she did? That maybe she wasn't such a huge imposition on him?

Maker, she hoped so.

She stood as he crossed the room to stand in front of her. She could almost feel his presence on her skin, the warmth of him somehow radiating through his armour and the space between them in anticipation of his hands on her...

She waved a hand in an invitation to sit – he had a strange look in his eye and did so with a _thump_, letting his legs sprawl and his shield and sword drop by the chair.

In a flash, she recognised what it was – Fear. _Cullen was afraid?_

Afraid of what? Of her? Then why had he come-

Her mind stumbled. He'd never been the one to come to her before. She'd always come to him. When she had needed it, she'd been the one to approach him. This was the first time it had been the other way – he was scared she'd refuse.

She blinked thinking fast – how could she tell him she wanted it. Whatever he wanted, she wanted too. Just coming out with it was not something either of them would welcome. She needed him to know...

"Can I do anything to help you ser?" the words were out of her mouth carefully, and she wondered if she should have put more emphasis on the _ser_ to make him understand.

From the sudden heat in his eyes, she could tell she didn't need to, and felt a rush of wetness between her legs – Maker, but this man made her hot!

"Strip." His voice was flat and brooked no argument, and she wasn't anxious to give him one, shrugging out of her dressing gown swiftly, letting it fall where it would before, on a whim, kneeling between his spread legs, just close enough that it he wanted to, he could reach out and touch her.

They stared at each other, her arousal building nicely, but the anticipation making her mouth dry. She ran her tongue over her lower lip, hoping to regain some moisture, her eyes flickering to his groin where the fabric was being pushed up. The fact that he wanted her so much turning her on more in turn.

He seemed to be deciding something, and started pulling off his gloves, deliberately, tugging on the fingertips before dragging them off his hands. "Your mouth," he said, laying the first glove to one side and starting on the second. "I want you to use it."

She had to stifle an urge to slip her fingers between her legs – she liked using her mouth. Alistair...well, it wasn't that he didn't like it. "I just don't see," she remembered him saying. "Why anyone would want to do that when I could be inside you. It's not that it's not nice...it's just that this is so much better."

As she freed Cullen's erection, it would appear he did not have the same compunction. She ran her tongue up his underside and was rewarded with a gasp as she breathed in his scent, musk and sex and something spicey and male and it was glorious.

She took him into her mouth, glorying in the way she felt him tense and jerk as she sucked – oh yes, this was the reaction she enjoyed, the one that told her she was doing this so right, the person she was doing it to couldn't hold back, would loose themselves in the sensations she was giving them. She stroked with her hands as she did with her tongue, flicking her eyes from the task in front of her and felt a lurch of arousal at the sight of his head back and his eyes-half closed, veins standing out on his neck with the effort of staying still.

She kept working, swallowing around him occasionally, bobbing back and forward as she could feel the tension building in him and her own arousal beginning to make her uncomfortable, humming with frustration-

Without warning, he gave a yelp and buried his hands in her hair, forcing her head down as he came. He was so far back in her mouth that she swallowed automatically, not even able to taste him.

He gradually ground to a stop, and she kept him in her mouth as he softened and his breathing levelled out again, and his eyes open to look down at her with an expression that she couldn't name if her life depended on it...but by _Andraste_ she wanted to come.

For a second she thought she might when he looked right at her and said "good girl," the praise washing through her.

Somewhat unsteadily, she noted with some pride, he got to his feet. For a horrible second, she thought he was about to wish her a good night and leave, but instead he simply said "get up."

She did, and still looking at her like she was the most important thing in the world to him, he slipped one hand behind her right knee and then lifted it until it was pressed into his waist, just above his hip, and thank goodness she'd kept up those flexibility exercises Leiliana had taught her...

She nearly lost her balance at the unexpected move, and ended up grabbing his shoulders to keep herself from pitching over. He kept eye contact, that same serious intent gaze as he slipped his other hand between her legs and OH!

It was a slow rhythm, but somehow he seemed to hit all the right spots every time. She could almost feel her eyes rolling back in her head at the pleasure of it all, it was so perfect, it was just a little...too...slow.

Panting she tried to work her hips against his hand, trying to increase the sensation, but oh by the Maker, that made it better, but not quite, if she could just, could just-

She caught herself leaning back too far and brought herself upright again with a lurch, her hands going white knuckled on the shoulders of his armour, still looking him in the eye, which somehow just made this more intense, made her feel like she was open to him, had no secrets, nothing at all that could be kept from him and he knew all of it.

His fingers pressed into her again and she whimpered, rolling herself against them before she caught herself heading backwards again.

_'Fuck it,'_ she thought, letting herself lean forward on him, her forehead pressed to his shoulder. She knew it looked like she was surrendering herself. At this point, she'd do so if it meant she got what she needed, and that blessed rhythm was _still going_, still sending thoughts skittering out of her head, her knees feel like they were going to give way under her, sweat slick her body as his fingers pumped in...and out...and in...and oh blessed Andraste!

She wasn't sure when she started begging. It was entirely internal at first, but Maker, he was making her _lose her mind_ with this, please, please let her come, please ser, please ser, please ser...

She kept rolling her hips, working for it, pressing herself against him, desperate for sensation, because this was teeth grittingly good, and please ser, please let her come, please please please...

"Do you want it?"

The quiet words broke through her pleading, and she nearly laughed with disbelief – _want it?_ Right now, she was so desperate she might just _kill for it_, anything at all, anything he wanted, all he'd have to do was breath it and she'd be off, anything, anything at all, just by the Maker, _let her come!_

Her head felt about ten times its normal weight as she looked at him, not bothering to hide the desperation in her gaze. "Yes ser," shamefully her voice shook. She couldn't find it in her to care. "Please ser..."

"Tell me."

It was like someone had opened the floodgates on a dam. "I want it so badly ser, please, please ser, I need it ser, I need _you_ ser, please..." The words left her mouth without permission, but she wouldn't have pulled them back even if she could, it was true, and right now she didn't care about anything but those pumping excruciating fingers between her legs, but it was true and please-

The pressure she'd been missing, the Maker blessed pressure suddenly was _there _on her clit, and his fingers pumped in once more and she, and she-!

If she hadn't been so worried about falling over she would have screamed. As it was she could feel herself shaking uncontrollably, cries leaving her mouth unbidden, and was dimly aware that he'd dropped her leg in favour of holding her up and to him...

...All she could feel was the release. It was like being caught in a star burst, lights flashing in front of her eyes and the world exploding and when her heart stopped thundering in her ears and her breath no longer felt like she would never drag enough air into her lungs ever again, she was stood naked, pressed to a Templar who was holding her up, his fingers still buried between her legs.

He gently eased them out from between them, and muttered into her hair that they ought to get some rest.

She nodded tiredly, smiling at him, and he smiled back which made something inside her catch but she refused to examine what exactly, as he let himself out and she collapsed into bed, sleep claiming her immediately.

She had never been so glad of that night as she was over the following week, because the next afternoon, with enough fanfare that you'd think _they'd_ stopped the Blight, the Orlesians arrived.

As a group, she disliked most of them on sight. It probably didn't help that the first things out of their mouths when they arrived was criticisms of...well, everything.

There were eighteen Templars, and fifteen mages, all of them her age and older, and none of them found anything satisfactory. The tower was too tall, too grey, too ugly, the scenery too brown, the lake too cold and unfriendly, the facilities too limited, the wind too loud, the food too bland (she thought the kitchen staff might brain the lot at that one) and the wine too lifeless, the clothes too shapeless and dull, the library too small...

The list went on, and she did her best to stay out of their way. The problem was they were quite anxious to get in hers...and not for the same reasons the others were. Rather, their Templars and mages alike seemed to see her as a challenge.

They never _spoke_ to her – only challenged. On the first night after they arrived, a group of seven of them plunked down next to her, ignoring the fact she was (supposedly) buried nose deep in a book and everyone else had taken the polite hint that she didn't want to be disturbed.

"You are ze 'ero of Ferelden?" sneered one of them, with a shared smile to his fellows that clearly stated she was a midge beneath his notice and should she make any attempt to claim such a grand title, they would enjoy having something to mock.

"Nope, sorry," she'd answered brusquely. "She just left, you missed her."

"Eh?" He looked confused.

She shrugged and went back to her book.

He bristled for a second at the dismissal, before trying again, this time poking her in the shoulder before he spoke with a single hesitant finger as if he was afraid he'd get something on it.

"You, you are the one who defeated ze archdemon, yes?"

"Nope," she said again, still not moving her eyes from her book. "That was several armies and no fewer than three grey wardens. Try again."

Technicalities, oh how she loved them.

They frowned and conversed among themselves for a few minutes, obviously not quite prepared to deal with a 'Hero' who didn't want to claim the title and flatly refused to admit to their epic deeds.

Across the room, she could have sworn she could see Irving smirk behind his soup spoon. Well, bully for him.

They were going to give it one last go. "Were you," their leader enunciated carefully. "In ze battle at Denerim?"

She put her book down, swallowing a huff that wanted to escape – to lose her temper would just play into their hands. "Yes."

"Ah!" Their eyes lit up. "You are the grey warden, yes?"

"_The_ grey warden?" She repeated their question back at them. "There is more than _one_ grey warden. The most famous is _King_ Alistair. Another one that fought the archdemon was Riordan, but he died. Or, if you want the most senior, that would be Duncan, before Ostagar at least. And as for the newest, I believe a Dwarven veteren of Denerim called Oghren has recently expressed an interest in joining." She looked at their baffled faces with a sweet smile. "Which grey warden are you interested in?"

A coughing fit broke out across the room, and she thought it would serve Irving right if he actually ended up choking on his soup covering up his giggle fit like that.

Muttering unhappily in Orlesian between them, the group retreated, and she decided now would be an excellent time to remove herself and finish her meal somewhere private.

They caught up with her the next morning as she was midway through her staff exercises in her habitual spot in the rose garden, the leader thrusting his finger at her in an accusatory manner as he spoke. "You _are_ ze 'Ero!"

She paused in a half crouch, from which she'd been about to spring through a tumble and up with a cone of ice, but now if she did that, she'd just hit them – tempting as it was, she ought not to cause international incidents if she could help it.

"Nope," she replied bluntly – at the back of the group, she saw Cullen slide quietly into a guard position and wished she had a way she could tell him thanks for turning up at this most opportune of times.

They were now looking annoyed, on the verge of angry, so she thought she ought to throw them a bone. "I'm not officially the 'Hero of Ferelden' until the king officially signs a decree stating it. He hasn't done it yet, so I'm not."

And if she knew Alistair's hatred of paperwork, it never _would_ get signed, so she was going to keep using that excuse.

The other mage laughed, while the others looked a lot more satisfied. "Ah, your king, he is a little lazy, eh, not to reward the person who saved 'is lands?"

She knew she shouldn't rise to it. She knew that was why they were saying what they were. She couldn't help it, she bristled anyway. "Well, given he never wanted to be king in the first place, I don't think that's so bad."

More laughter. "Well," said another man further back in the group. "You could always given Ferelden back if he doesn't want it."

"_Oui,_ I am sure we would take it if you asked nicely," added a woman snidely.

She saw red, but suddenly Cullen – thank the Maker for Cullen – was there to the side of them, his appearance sudden enough and big enough to make most of them start in surprise. "I'm sure you're not interrupting one of our senior mages from her training just to sate your curiosity now, are you?"

His voice was halfway between a boom and a growl and to his credit, all but one of them backed up a step.

The leader though, had more balls than sense. "Training? Ah, we could train with you, eh 'Ero? We could have a match!" He laughed nastily. "Yes, a test, we shall see 'ow good you actually are, or if you are just a little better zan ze rest of ze rabble, yes?"

He seemed quite pleased with this suggestion until Cullen leaned in until his nose was but a hair from the other man's, and growled out "All duels must have written permission of the First Enchanter. Any one caught proposing a duel without it is subject to the Rite of Tranquility."

They weren't actually, they were subject to loosing privileges and if they'd done serious damage, some solitary time, but the threat had the right effect and the man went pale and retreated at speed with his fellows muttering something in their own language that she suspected was most definitely _not_ complimentary.

When they were out of sight, Cullen looked back to her, and their eyes met.

The moment stretched between them, and she thought he was probably wondering the same thing she was – should she say something? Would it ruin it?

She said "Thanks" at exactly the same moment he said "You ok?"

They smiled ruefully at each other for a moment and then he turned to go. "Don't let them get to you," he commented over his shoulder as he went.

She'd do her best, she promised him silently.

Not letting them get to her was easier said than done. Everywhere she went, she was followed.

Mostly by the Orlesian mages, most of whom were obviously looking for an opening, any opening, to challenge her, to test themselves against her. It was as if her mere existence was an affront to them – that not only had it been a Ferelden mage that had saved all the world from the Blight, but that she was female.

"You know she didn't actually do much, it was ze King who must have saved us, and she is taking all the credit," she heard muttered around the dining table one breakfast after she'd side stepped an early morning challenge from one of them.

"It's only because she's fucking every Templar here," was that evening in the library, when they didn't know she was tucked between two stacks reading. "I bet she simply was part of ze task force in Denerim, and has persuaded them to say this."

That was annoying. But she could take it. She didn't really care about her own reputation among two dozen foreigners. The things that annoyed her were the criticisms levelled at Alistair, Irving and the circle.

"The King here must be really useless," was the comment when the Orlesians learnt that, surprisingly enough, the damage to the tower was not going to be fixed in a matter of weeks.

"Irving is so incompetant – we could do better," went whispering around when the First Enchanter had the audacity to allow them each double quarters for no other reason than they wanted the space to make it pretty.

"Demon invasion? Pft, I think it was one abomination and all these ones, they are too weak to handle it!" was the loudly proclaimed opinion of the same idiot who'd tried to interrupt her training a week later in the same garden she was currently trying to perfect her shielding spell – a low level effect, yes, but it wasn't something that came easily and now she had time to practise.

Or she'd hoped to. Now as she gripped her staff so tightly part of her worried it might crack with her rage, she knew she had a choice between kicking off and storming away. Only one of them wouldn't land her on murder charges, so she huffed inside, the snickers from their group echoing in her ears.

In her anger, she lost her sense of proprietary and went storming into Irving's office, which was thankfully only occupied by himself and Greagoir. "When are they going?" she demanded, not bothering with niceties.

The two older men shared a look. "Going?"

She was nearly spitting with rage. "The Orlesians."

They both still looked at her blankly. "Have you heard the things they've been saying?" she demanded. "Not just about me, but they've been talking about Alistair, and Irving and Uldred, and..."

She ran out of words to express her anger.

"Ah, my dear," said Irving somewhat hesitantly. "They aren't going. Not any time soon at least, not for many years."

Now she stared at him. "They aren't reinforcements my dear, they are _replacements_. We simply cannot manage the number of new apprentices we're taking in on the mages we already have, even if all of them were ready to step up to Enchanter, and they're not."

She was lost for words. Literally lost for words – they knew they were going to have to be spending years here? This was how they were treating somewhere that was to become their _home?_

"I admit," said Irving with some reluctance. "From what I have heard we do seem to be having issues with..._negativity._"

"Could it maybe be regret?" voiced Greagoir. "They all volunteered to come here; possibly they did not know what they were letting themselves in for."

"Hmmmm," was Irving's response. "No matter what the cause, I believe it may be possibly time to have words with our respective groups."

Greagoir seemed put out by this, but eventually huffed. "I suppose it couldn't hurt."

"Does that put you at more ease?" Irving, concilitory as always.

"Thank you," she managed to gather the grace to say.

They nodded and watched her expectantly until she bowed out, leaving them to whatever they'd been working on before.


End file.
